


talk not to me of blasphemy

by Cinaed



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Church Sex, Crossdressing, Everyone loves Romeo, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I dislike this plan,” Benvolio says, not for the first time. The coarse linen of the nun’s habit itches; he frowns and resists the urge to wrench the veil from his head and undo the work of a good half-hour and more. </p><p>(Or, Romeo, Benvolio, and Mercutio don nun's habits to sneak into a convent so Romeo can woo a girl.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	talk not to me of blasphemy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this, car! 
> 
> Thanks go out to drcalvin for looking this over for me and helping me with the cursed Mercutio dialogue. 
> 
> Warnings include Mercutio's misogyny and, well, blasphemy.

“Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me.”

\- from Moby-Dick by Herman Melville

 

* * *

 

 

“I dislike this plan,” Benvolio says, not for the first time. The coarse linen of the nun’s habit itches; he frowns and resists the urge to wrench the veil from his head and undo the work of a good half-hour and more.

In the moonlight, Mercutio’s teeth glint silver as he laughs. “Ah, dear Benvolio, is that wounded vanity I hear?” He pats Benvolio’s shoulder and says with false compassion, “Don’t worry. Many women resign themselves to a convent when they find no man will have them. I am certain there must be a homelier sister within these holy walls.”

If the remark is meant to wound, for every objection Benvolio makes tonight hones Mercutio’s tongue to greater sharpness, it misses its mark. Benvolio knows he is not a handsome man; he is not surprised that he makes an uglier woman. The wimple conceals all but a portion of his face; it draws unkind attention to his thick eyebrows, his deep-set eyes, his too-large mouth and nose. No, he thinks with a half-amused twist of his lips, he has little pride in his looks.

He shakes his head. “It is not for vanity’s sake that I object.” He gestures to where Romeo crouches among the bushes; Romeo is humming a love-song half-under his breath as he searches. “I love a good jape as much as Romeo loves to sigh of love. But to sneak into a convent disguised as nuns so that he can finish wooing this girl….” When he looks towards the looming, somber walls once more, one of the pins holding the veil in place pinches him.

Before Mercutio can answer, Romeo makes a sound of triumph. “Here!” he says, rising and flourishing a piece of paper at them, a pleased smile spreading across his face despite the restriction of his barbette. “The instructions into the convent and to Angiola’s cell, as promised.”

“I think--”

“Let us not keep you from your angel any longer, dear Romeo,” Mercutio says, speaking over Benvolio. He snatches the paper from Romeo’s hand, reads it swiftly, and then crumples it despite Romeo’s startled objection. He tosses it aside with a careless flick of his wrist. “The north wall is not watched at night. Come! We only have a few hours ‘til morning and discovery. The moon sympathizes with Romeo’s plight, being herself consumed with love for the indifferent sun, but the sun loves no one but himself and will prove unkind to these disguises.”

With a mildly reproachful look, Romeo plucks the crumpled missive from the ground and hides it away in his habit. “We have even less time than that, which you know full well,” he says. “The nuns rise at first light, Angiola says, so we must be away before the sun.” He paces resolutely away from them, as though he is a compass and Angiola his north.

Mercutio lingers a moment. His hand is heavy upon Benvolio’s shoulder. “Well, let us bear Romeo to his lady, or else we shall have to endure his lovelorn sighs for another day.”

“And then?” Benvolio asks, for here lies his other objection. As they planned this scheme, Mercutio made no mention of what he and Benvolio will do in the convent while Romeo and Angiola reunite. “What will _we_ do once Romeo has his Angiola?”

Mercutio does not seem to hear the question, turning to follow after Romeo.

Benvolio hesitates, feeling again the pinch of the veil’s pins, the uncomfortable press of the coarse linen against his skin. He watches Mercutio disappear beyond the corner of the wall. The summer night is quiet, save for his own steady breathing in his ears. Then he shakes his head and laughs at himself. As though he has any other choice but to follow.  

“Romeo!” the girl cries in a loud whisper when they open the door to her cell.

Here is one who with no heart for the sisterhood, Benvolio thinks, not when her heart is too full of Romeo. Not that he believes she is in the convent to escape Romeo’s attentions rather than her father putting her here. She has lit a candle in anticipation of Romeo's arrival; the light plays upon her pale hands as she unpins his wimple and casts it aside so that Romeo’s dark tousled curls fall free once more, and upon her red lips as they shower kisses upon Romeo’s face.

 _We shall return in an hour_ , stills on Benvolio’s tongue, for Romeo has forgotten him and Mercutio entirely and now whispers fervent promises of love that he truly believes he will keep. It is difficult not to be moved by the strange sight of the two embracing, a curious mix of the profane and the beautiful with their pious habits and besotted looks.

The girl strokes a tender hand down Romeo’s jaw; he sighs and presses a kiss to her palm.

Benvolio looks away, stares at the fluttering candle although the bright flame swiftly hurts his eyes and he is forced to close them.

“Come,” says Mercutio softly against Benvolio’s cheek, his sudden breath making Benvolio shiver and reluctantly open his eyes. “The gentle son of Verona does not need us for this.” There is something almost harsh in the way he says it, though Benvolio knows that should he look, he would only see a mocking smile upon Mercutio’s face.

Benvolio shakes himself free of the spell the two cast over him, though he is too warm, suddenly, the habit too restrictive, his ears hot beneath the veil. He licks his lips, turns away from Romeo and ignores the too-knowing smirk upon Mercutio’s face. “And where,” he asks again, “shall we go in the meantime?”

Mercutio still does not answer him, though by now this is no surprise. Instead his hand closes upon Benvolio’s wrist and urges him from the cell’s entrance.

Benvolio lets himself be led through the twists and turns of the convent halls until they at last emerge to fresh air. Here at the entrance to the convent’s garden, he balks, digs in his heels until Mercutio turns and laughs at him. “I do not know what you plan now, Mercutio, but if you think I will eat stolen fruit from a convent, that is too far--”

Mercutio laughs once more. “What, am I the serpent to your Eve? I shall not tempt you with forbidden fruit, dear Benvolio, not even from the Tree of Knowledge, for I think we would both find such knowledge bitter fare. Especially as the sisters here grow pear trees. No, I had something far sweeter in mind.” The moonlight shines full upon his face, exaggerates his leer.

Benvolio watches him warily. He cannot guess the thoughts that teem within Mercutio’s mind, but he knows that mischievous, half-lidded look well enough. It is one which means Mercutio, having no one else to flirt with, will turn his attention upon Benvolio, as though he fears his charms will sour if he has no one to practice them upon.

It is therefore no surprise when Mercutio steps closer, his breath hot against Benvolio’s face, his hand still firm upon Benvolio’s wrist. His question, however, is unexpected. “Answer me this: are we not for the moment sisters of the cloth?”

Benvolio cannot see the trap, though the words close around him like a cage he is only half-inclined to escape. “We wear their clothing, certainly,” he answers cautiously.

Mercutio brings Benvolio’s hand to his mouth in a mocking kiss, a light brush of lips against knuckles. “At least for tonight we ape at being nuns. As brides of Christ, should we not enjoy our wedding night?”

For a moment Benvolio does not understand, then enlightenment sweeps over him. He laughs, a sharp, incredulous sound even as the image of Romeo, turned half-nun, half-lover profaning the cell, springs unbidden into his mind. He shakes his head and attempts a mock-severe look despite the sudden press of his prick against his hose.

“How God has not struck you down by now for your blasphemy, I do not know.”  

Mercutio shrugs dismissively. Even with his face mostly concealed by the veil and obscured by the moonlight, Benvolio recognizes the bitter slant to Mercutio’s smile. “Is it not obvious? God forsook Verona long ago. Anything we say, prayer or blasphemy, falls upon uncaring ears.” Before Benvolio can object, Mercutio bends and mouths at the tips of Benvolio’s fingers, stealing away his breath. “But come, enough. Our wedding night is short and grows even shorter with these wasted words. Or do you wish to pray for my damned soul instead?”

“Now who is wasting words,” Benvolio says, smirking even as he assents to Mercutio’s suggestion with a light brush of his fingers across Mercutio’s exposed brow. Mercutio nips at him for the remark, a quick sharp pain that makes Benvolio hiss and snatch his fingers away from Mercutio’s mouth.  

“Does my lady wish for gentleness?” Mercutio feigns apology even as he undoes the pins of his wimple. The veil falls from his head, his tousled red hair turned silver in the moonlight. He bends still further, going to his knees upon the paved path and offering Benvolio a smile that is all teeth, wild and dangerous and not at all befitting a demure bride.

“And yet you still waste words,” says Benvolio, and earns a laugh in answer. He closes his eyes, leans back against against the garden wall as Mercutio pushes the gown up past his hips and fumbles with the laces of his hose.

“Then let me put my mouth to better use.” Mercutio’s mouth is warm as it wraps around Benvolio’s prick, and almost gentle, with just enough threat of teeth to make Benvolio’s breath catch in his throat.

Benvolio tangles one hand in Mercutio’s hair, brings the other to his lips to muffle the sounds Mercutio’s tongue teases from him. There is no imagining another’s mouth or someone else kneeling there, for every taunting scrap of teeth and clever flick of the tongue and this heady mix of sweet discomfort is all Mercutio.

He grips Mercutio’s hair more tightly, moves his hand away from his mouth long enough to mutter a hoarse warning that he is about to climax. Mercutio answers him only by taking him deeper in a smooth, practiced movement that has Benvolio spending in another instant.

When he can think clearly again, he realizes that Mercutio has redone his hose and tugged down his gown, and is in the middle of rising, the movement made awkward in a way that makes Benvolio smirk a little.

Mercutio catches the look and purses his lips at him. In a wavering, mocking falsetto, he complains, “Do not look so, Benvolio. You have been remiss in your wedding night duties.” He puts one hand on his hip, pouts. “I did not think you so uncaring a--”

It is then they hear angry voices. A second later Romeo emerges from the convent at a sprint, a hunted look upon his face and his gown hitched almost to his hips to let him run without impediment. The reason for his dismay is made clear by two furious nuns who race onto the garden path after him shouting and shaking their fists.

Benvolio pushes himself away from the wall, and, laughing at the rage in the nuns’ faces, joins Romeo in flight towards the vine-covered wall. It is only when Mercutio curses savagely that Benvolio turns and sees him, suddenly graceless, struggling to follow them in a limping run. There is aggrieved discomfort plain upon his face.

It takes a second for Benvolio to realize Mercutio’s predicament, but once he does, he laughs so loudly that he nearly trips over his own feet. “Poor Mercutio!” he says, breathless with hilarity. He reaches back, catches hold of Mercutio’s sleeve and hauls him forward a few paces before one of the pursuing nuns can seize the back of his gown. “Such disappointment on your wedding night!”

Mercutio, all eloquence gone for the moment, only curses at him.

Giddy mirth turns Benvolio’s tongue almost witty, and he flings one last sally at Mercutio before they reach the wall and must focus on their escape.

“Fear not, I will carry you across the threshold once we are away and alone.”

**Author's Note:**

> Things learned while researching this fic: pears don't ripen on the tree. Once they're mature, you harvest them, and then they ripen once they're off the branch. If you try to eat them off the branch, they'll be gritty and bitter. 
> 
> ...and probably no one cares in a fic about crossdressing blowjobs, but uh, anyway. Hope everyone enjoyed the fic!


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